


Into the Smiting Sky

by ghostboi



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Azazel - Freeform, Crossroads Deals & Demons, Crowley (Supernatural) - Freeform, Dean loves his Sammy, Demonic Possession, Demons, M/M, No Smut, Possessed Dean Winchester, Possessed John Winchester, Possessive Dean Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam on the run, pre-wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:19:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24484183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostboi/pseuds/ghostboi
Summary: Two weeks.That's how long it had taken him to figure out what was wrong.What the hell was he supposed to do now?(Or the one where Sam is on the run, John wants to (finally) be his dad, and Dean wants him as his mate. There might be demons involved)
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 10
Kudos: 178





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [[Request fill on wattpad. I'm not sure I did this justice, or even hit the ballpark of the requested fic. Took a completely different turn than planned (& is completely smut-free, which was a bit of a surprise). I may try to do another play on this request later to see if I can get a bit closer to what was requested.]]
> 
> The request: [AU Season 2 John and Dean become demons, who are intent on protecting and spoiling Sam because he's the baby of the family and still human, and to make up how John was to him, while Sam who is trying to cure them, is running from them. John wants to claim him as a son. Dean wants to claim him as a mate]
> 
> [title from an ee cummings poem.]

Two weeks. 

That’s how long it had taken him to figure out what was wrong. 

Oh, he had known something was off that first night, the night after the car accident.

He had stepped into a hospital room where his brother was lying in a hospital bed, and saw his father lying on the floor. He had rushed to the downed man’s side, knelt beside him to grasp his shoulder and give him a shake. John remained motionless, and panic had crept up along Sam’s rib cage. Was the man even breathing? He had half-risen, preparing to run for a nurse or doctor, when John’s eyes shot open. Sam had breathed a sigh of relief, moving back as John sat up.

“What happened? Are you okay? Should I get a doctor?”

John shook his head no, grimaced and rubbed his forehead. “I’m fine, just had a dizzy spell. Guess I fell down?”

“Sam?” the hoarse croak had them both climbing to their feet - John using Sam’s shoulder to lever himself upward - and moving to the bed.

“Dean,” he had breathed another sigh of relief, this one from his very bones, it felt like, as green eyes locked on him. He dropped a hand to his brother’s arm, gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Hey Sammy,” his brother shot him a bit of a smile, reached a hand toward him. Sam grasped it quickly so he wouldn’t shift too much. “Dad, you okay?” 

“Yeah Dean,” his father stepped in closer, reached out to pat the blanket covering Dean’s legs, “I’m good. How you feeling?” 

The young man was silent for a moment before answering, “Feel okay. Little sore, head hurts. Thirsty as hell.”

“Oh,” Sam turned and reached for a cup of water sitting on a table next to the bed. The ice had long since melted but it would suffice for now. He held it up to his brother’s mouth, adjusted the straw so Dean could take several long drinks.

“Thanks Sammy,” the other shot him a smile when he had finished.

Three hours later, they were exiting the hospital against his doctor’s advice. Dean had insisted he was feeling fine, just a little sore, and his vitals were good. The doctor was perplexed - “You were in a coma two hours ago, I don’t understand it” - but Dean had insisted he was alright and wanted to leave.

He had shot Sam a curious look when they reached the Impala and Sam tugged at his arm, but climbed into the backseat with him without protest. He had only smiled and draped his arm around him when Sam leaned against his side and rested his head on his shoulder. He had nearly lost his brother, he wasn’t ready yet to put distance between them. 

He wasn’t certain either about Dean’s sudden recovery, but he was grateful for it. Just another weird thing in the lives of the Winchesters.

When they arrived at a motel an hour later - a _nice_ motel, with soft beds and even a breakfast bar - and climbed out of the car, his dad had stepped in front of him and _hugged him_ and said something about being happy he was okay, leaving him staring in confusion. Dean had only shrugged and, snagging hold of his sleeve, followed after the man, tugging him along. Inside the room, he had received another hug from the man, and another declaration that he was happy Sam was okay, hadn’t been hurt. That he loved him. Then John had headed for the bathroom and the shower. Sam had blinked after him for a moment; they weren’t a touchy-feely family, didn’t talk about feelings a lot (if ever). John’s sentiments, coupled with the hugs, were.. unnatural. 

Sam Winchester sighed and dropped his duffel bag on the motel bed, running a hand over his face. 

Things had only gotten stranger after that night. John had continued the affectionate act, talking about how he wanted to make up for being a dick to Sam when Sam was younger. “You’re my youngest, Sammy -” he had started one afternoon, only chuckling at Sam’s automatic (and sincere) retort of ‘Only Dean gets to call me that’, “- and I’ve been a dick to you. I need to make that up to you, son, I need to repair our relationship.” Sam’s bewildered ‘why?’ had left John shaking his head, a look of grief on his face. “You’re my son,” the man had repeated, “and I want to fix things.”   
  
Twenty-one years and he suddenly wanted to play at being a dad, to fix things? He had been suspicious since that first night, suspecting something had happened in that hospital room during the few minutes he had gone out for coffee, which had turned John into a suddenly-overly-affectionate being. 

His remarks to Dean on the topic only caused his big brother to chuckle and drop an arm around his shoulder. The elder had pulled him close and murmured ‘so smart, Sammy, always thinking with that big brain of yours’, and it was practically a confirmation. So he had asked about curses or spells, but Dean had only shaken his head and denied any knowledge of anything happening. “I was in a coma, Sam, remember?” He had finally asked John on the third day; again a denial that anything had happened, that any of the doctors or nurses had been acting strange.  
  
His behavior grew increasingly bizarre, for John Winchester at least, as the week progressed, and Sam grew increasingly frustrated. The hugs; the kind and complimentary words which left Sam feeling quite unsettled; extra treats at restaurants or gas stations. Better motel rooms because ‘you’ve been living in rat holes for too long, Sam.’ 

The biggest puzzle was that suddenly he wouldn’t allow Sam to accompany them on several hunts, proclaiming they were too dangerous. It was perplexing because these were the types of hunts Sam had been helping with since he was barely a teenager, monsters he had faced over the years. One night the man had even gone alone, making Dean stay with Sam to ‘keep him safe’, after Sam had gotten pissed and demanded to know what the hell was wrong with John.

When Sam demanded that Dean acknowledge how weird John had been acting, his brother had simply shrugged a shoulder and agreed it was a little weird, but that John was trying to make up for past behavior. “He feels bad that you got hurt,” Dean told him, “We were in that accident and you had a concussion, and he feels guilty about it. Let him have his moment, Sammy. He’s trying to do better.”

“But you were the one in the coma, Dean!”

  
  
Dean’s behavior changes had been more subtle, almost parallel with his typical behavior, so it had taken Sam longer to notice. His brother had always been protective, and yes even possessive, so he hadn’t realized at first. Not until a waitress in some greasy diner in Missouri caught him on his way to the car and told him he was cute, and slipped her phone number to him on a napkin. He had flushed and grinned - she giggled and leaned in close - and was trying to think of something clever to say, when he felt a hand catch his elbow. His brother had pressed up against his back suddenly, causing him to freeze is shock, and peered over his shoulder to growl at the waitress,

“Piss off. He’s mine.”

The girl had stared for a moment, wide-eyed; Sam had done a bit of staring himself, looking over his shoulder at Dean in shock. He hadn’t even noticed the girl turn and leave because Dean turned his gaze on him.. and his normally green eyes were black. Completely, absolutely black.   
  
Sam’s brain had come back online and he had jerked away, startled, before turning to face Dean again. “What the fuck, Dean?”   
  
“What?” Dean’s eyes, green now, were locked on him, a slight smile on his mouth, “Was that too much? It’s true, Sammy. You’re mine.”   
  
“I - what? What the hell? What?”   
  
“Always have been,” Dean moved closer, and Sam stared at him, eyes wide, “Always gonna be mine.” The man’s tone was low, possessive, as he leaned in close to whisper in his ear, hand catching his arm to pull him closer, “Always.” Sam blinked and swallowed hard. What the hell was going on here? Had he imagined what he had seen? Why was Dean acting so strange? So possessive?

Before he could say anything else, his brother had turned and was heading for the car. “C’mon, Sam, time to go.”

He was starting to think he was losing his mind.  
  
Two days of denial and then some minor tests to check his theory, and Sam was even more unsettled. John practically climbing over the bed when Sam “accidentally” dropped a flask of holy water (and then assuring him it was alright, no hint of anger at all for ‘wasting’ it); Dean eating his food without adding tons of salt, as was typical for him; John ‘forgetting’ to lay down salt lines at night.

One phone call to Bobby (without tipping the man off that it was John and Dean acting so out-of-sorts) after his little tests, and Sam was certain he had an answer. He didn’t like it at all - hated it, in fact - but the strange behaviors, the characteristics, the _symptoms_ , fit. The way his brother had woken abruptly from a coma, and was leaving the hospital mere hours later; John’s odd collapse just before that.

Demon possession.  
  
Whispering “Christo” at John when the man attempted to hug him two days after that confirmed it: his father’s eyes had flooded with black and the man had cringed away from him. His next whisper was “fuck” and John was smiling at him and telling him, “Figured it out, eh? Always the smart one, our Sam. It’s fine, son. I’m still me, it’s fine.”   
  
“We have to get you help,” he had started, “We have to - shit, we’ll call Bobby, he can -”

“Sam!” John placed his hands on his shoulders, peered down at him, “It’s fine, son. I’m great, I feel great. And I’ve pulled my head out of my ass and saw how awful I was treating you, and now I can fix things, I can be your dad and take care of you. You see? It’s better like this, it’s -”

Sam had pulled free and fled the motel room then, had run two miles to a local park. Trying to think, trying to _breathe_ , because what the hell was he supposed to do now?

He had been sitting on a swing, lost in thought and swaying back and forth, when Dean found him two hours later. Sam had taken one look at his brother, saw the always-present concern on Dean’s face, and had thrown himself into the other’s arms, hugging him close. He was mumbling, mostly questions of what he was supposed to do now, what _they_ were going to do, and Dean had held him and let him talk, rubbing his back and occasionally murmuring “it’s okay, Sammy, I’ve got you.”

Finally, the young man had pulled back to smile down at him and tell him, “We’re ready to head out. You good?”  
  
He hadn’t known what to do, so he had nodded blankly, eyes on the ground. Fingers slipped beneath his chin to raise his head, and he found himself staring into Dean’s green gaze. He hadn’t even realized what was happening until his brother’s mouth brushed his own. He had been motionless for a moment, breath caught in his lungs, before jerking back and asking, voice bewildered, 

“Dean?”

“Mine,” the other had murmured, brushing a knuckle down his cheek, “You were meant for me, Sam, it was always you.” Sam stared into eyes that were suddenly black like coal, partially stunned and partially afraid. Before he had the chance to react or respond (and how the actual fuck was he supposed to respond to _that_?), Dean shot him that smile he had, the one that always made Sam’s heart skip a little and the world seem a bit brighter, his eyes their beautiful shade of green again. He nodded in the vague direction of the motel as he said, “C’mon, time to get out of this one-horse town.”

Sam followed, at a loss on what to do.

  
  
The next night found them in another small town for another hunt. John had declared it “too dangerous”, instructed Sam to stay in the room. He had protested automatically, reminding them that he was a hunter, too, but John had insisted and Dean had backed him. “You’re human, Sam,” his father had stated, apparently unaware that Sam really wasn’t okay with the fact that they were demon-possessed, or demons, or whatever the hell was going on with them, “If something happens and you get hurt, I couldn’t forgive myself, son. Stay here, we’ll be back soon.”

Dean knew his little brother far better, and had moved close to tell him, voice low as if he was trying to keep it between them, “I know you’re uncomfortable with - this - “ he motioned toward himself and John, “-but it’s going to be okay. I won’t let anything happen to you, I promise. You don’t have to be afraid of me, please don’t be afraid of me. We’re not going to hurt anyone, Sammy, I swear it, and I swear to you I’ll keep you safe. We’ll figure all of this out. Trust me, okay?”

He wanted to trust, he really did. Looking into those green eyes that had looked out for him all his life made him want to do just that. Sam swallowed and merely nodded, biting back the protests which were on the tip of his tongue.

His father had exited the bathroom then and laid a handful of money on the small side table, told him to order take-out, anything he wanted, and had grabbed his jacket and left the room. Dean shot him that playful smirk he had and followed, winking at him before walking out the door.

Sam paced the room for an hour, lost in thought, before moving to the room’s window. Shifting the blinds to peer outside showed him that the Impala was still gone, there wasn’t anyone outside. Decision made, he grabbed his backpack and duffel bag. Pocketing the money his dad had placed on the side table, he tossed his cell phone on top of Dean’s duffle bag and left the room, locking the door behind him.

One bus ticket later, and he was heading for a town three states away.

  
  
That had been almost a week ago, and Sam had been moving ever since. He made certain he didn’t use the system his dad and Dean had drilled into him years ago - first motel listed in the phone book yellow pages - instead choosing them at random (and never the first listed). He would stay one night under a fake name, one he hadn’t used with John and Dean, and move on the next morning. 

One warm night he had slept in a local park, sitting back against a giant oak, partially to save money and partially to avoid creating any patterns that might allow his brother to find him. He fought monsters, so joggers in parks certainly didn’t scare him.

He hitched rides to his new locations, or bought bus tickets with cash, hair covered with a ball cap with the brim pulled low over his face. One night he hotwired a car and drove for three hours, where he abandoned it at a rest stop and caught a ride with a trucker and his wife. He knew if anyone could find him it would be Dean, and he wasn’t ready for that to happen. Not until he figured out how to help him and their father, not until he found some way to free them. As much as he missed Dean and wanted to be by his brother’s side again, he had to find something to help them first.

He sighed again as he pulled his laptop out of his backpack and made himself comfortable on the full bed. He booted it up and did a quick search for local restaurant delivery, then placed an online order under a woman’s name. Once that was done, he stretched out on the bed and stared at the ceiling, arms pillowing his head. 

His thoughts turned to the research he had done over the past few days, regarding demon possession. A bit of it had potentially helpful information, most of it had been myth and conjecture. He figured holy water would help, and exorcism, but he wasn’t certain about any of the other theories listed online. He wanted to call Bobby to see what information he had, but he hadn’t yet, afraid that maybe his dad or Dean had already called the man and told them Sam had run off, that he was imagining things. Maybe he should call Bobby anyway, and clue him in on everything. If the demons didn’t want to leave, and it seemed they weren’t planning on it any time soon, he might need Bobby’s help to cure them. He frowned at the ceiling; he didn’t want to do anything to hurt them, especially his brother. Would exorcism do that? He was certain it wouldn’t be anything pleasant for them, if the demons didn’t want to leave them.

He wasn’t even ready to think about Dean’s words to him a week ago - _“you were meant for me, Sam, it was always you”_ \- but he couldn’t help himself. Had the other meant them like they sounded? Was he imagining it? Was that his brother, or was it the black-eyed thing within him talking? It had to be, right? 

Sam blinked and sat up as he heard a knock on the door. 

“Who is it?”

“La Rosa’s delivery,” came a muffled response.   
  
Sam stood and pulled his gun from the side pocket of his duffel bag, then moved to the door. “Say Christo,” he called, flicking off the safety.   
  
“What?” Even through the wood, he could hear the confusion in the delivery driver’s voice.

“It - humor me,” he called, “Gotta make sure you’re not some psycho trying to kill me.”

“That - o-kay,” the muffled voice responded, “Crisco.”

“Christo.”

“Christo? Like Chris with a toe? Christo.”

Sam sighed and flicked the safety back on before tucking his gun in the back of his jeans. He unlocked and opened the door, to find a confused delivery driver, holding a bag of food. 

“Sorry,” he shot the other a sheepish smile as he handed him some cash for the food and a tip, “It’s - a thing.” 

“No worries, man,” the man shot him a smile, “I’m not judging you. Enjoy your meal.” He walked away with a large tip and a slight wave, and Sam shut the door. 

He locked the door and took his food back to the bed, ready to do just that. 

  
  



	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [apologies if the format is wonky, i can't seem to get it sorted tonight]

Dean was ready to put a hole in something. 

Almost a week, and they still hadn’t found Sam. Even before this new side of him, he would have been pacing the floor in worry and frustration.

“Damnit, Sam. Where are you?”

Dean exited the bus depot and crossed the parking lot, toward the Impala. He climbed into the car, glancing at his dad as the man asked, “Any luck?”

“No,” he muttered, shoving the picture of Sam he had printed from his phone at a local Walgreens in his back pocket, “They didn’t recognize him.”

“We’ll find him,” the older man soothed, starting the car, “It’s just a matter of time.”

His fist clenched where it rested on his knee as he practically growled, eyes going black briefly, “I want him here now.” His gaze shifted to John as the man chuckled and asked,

“You always been this protective of your brother?” His smile faded at Dean’s retort,

“Where have you been our entire lives? Of course I have.” He sighed and rubbed his hand over his face, “Sorry dad. I’m just - we need to find Sam.”

He stared out the window as his father pulled onto the highway, his thoughts on his wayward brother. Why had Sam taken off? No, he knew the answer to that: it was because of what he and their father had become the night of that car accident. The price John had paid to save his life.

The real question was where had he gone, and was he afraid of Dean now? Dean had sworn he wouldn’t hurt him and he had meant it. He would die before he hurt his brother, that hadn’t changed. The longer he was away from Sam, the stronger the need to find him. To protect him. He wanted him here. He just  _ wanted  _ him. It was a need which had been buried before a couple of weeks ago, one he had refused to ever let see the light of day. Since that night, that need had made itself known. He wanted his brother. Sam was and had always been his soul’s companion. His mate.

He needed Sam with him. Dean would find him, and he would show him they belonged together. 

  
  


John shot a glance at his oldest son before shifting his gaze back to the highway. Dean had been on edge since returning to that motel room a week ago and finding Sam gone. He had promptly called his cell phone, only to hear ringing from Dean’s duffel bag.

John could understand his urgency; he wanted to find Sam, too. The sooner the better. His youngest was alone right now, out in a world filled with monsters and demons and worse things without anyone at his back. The night of the car accident - the night he had accepted from a crossroads demon a deal that would save his oldest’s life - had given him some clarity. He hadn’t quite realized just what a dick he had been to Sam throughout the years. Yeah, they clashed often, argued all the time, had different views on almost everything, but Sam was his son! How had he not realized how he was treating him before? How vulnerable Sam could be? He had always viewed it as a weakness, and that had been his failing, hadn’t it? It had given his youngest empathy and insight into other people, but John had scoffed at that vulnerability. Pushed him to become “tougher” and “stronger” and “more”. 

Only one of the mistakes he needed to correct. Sam deserved better, and John was determined to treat him better. He realised it was fairly horrible that it took a demon to show him that: what did that say about him as a person before the night of Dean’s near-death?

He cast a glance at Dean, before his gaze returned to the road. He knew Dean was worried about his little brother, and he also knew now the other had feelings of a less brotherly nature toward Sam. He frowned as he considered that. It unsettled him, they were brothers, for fuck's sake. Some part of him, though, which he knew to be the demon riding him, felt a great deal of glee in knowing it. He wanted to protest that type of relationship, to tell Dean it was absolutely not acceptable, but found he couldn't. More than that, it wouldn't  _ let _ him speak it aloud, and wasn't that incredibly frustrating? Instead, it taunted him with a small, smug voice in his head, _Don't you want your sons to be happy?_

His eyes shifted back to his eldest son as he assured, “We’ll find him, Dean.”

Dean only nodded, fingers tapping restlessly on his knee as he stared out the window.

“Why’d you do it?” 

The question, asked above the sound of the radio several minutes later, caught John off guard.

“What?”

“Why. Did. You. Do. It?” Green eyes were on him now, a slight frown marring Dean’s features.

John contemplated the question for several seconds. “The deal, you mean?”

“Yeah, the deal.”

“To save your life, Dean.”

“Huh. Didn’t occur to you that maybe I would have had an aversion to being a meat puppet for a demon? Given what we do every fucking day of our lives?”

“You’re angry.” He was stating the obvious and he knew it; mostly he was hedging for time. Why had he done it? To save Dean’s life. That was the truth. He had known it was a bad deal, he hadn’t liked it, but the crossroads demon hadn’t been open to accepting many changes to his terms, and he wasn’t ready to see his son dead and in the ground or burning on a pyre. 

“Yeah, I’m fucking angry.” A muscle in Dean’s clenched jaw twitched, hand a fist on his knee. “You sold me out, dad. Sold us both out. To fucking demons.”

“Couldn’t let you die,” his voice was quieter than he intended, sounded guilty even to him.

“Well you should have,” the other retorted harshly, “Now we’re - this, whatever the hell we are, and Sam’s gone.”

“What do you think it would have done to him if you had died that night, Dean?”

“At least he wouldn’t have been afraid of me!” Dean’s voice was raised, both fists clenched on his thighs, his green eyes gone black now, “At least - “ The young man swallowed hard, averted his gaze to the window again. His voice was softer as he finished, “At least he wouldn’t have hated me at the end.”

“He doesn’t - “

“He does,” weariness now in his voice, and John could hear the hurt behind it, “He hates what we are now. That’s why he left me.”

John stared at the road ahead, swallowed hard. He knew Dean was right - Sam  _ had _ been afraid the night he left, the night John tried to make him see everything was going to be alright.

“What was the deal?”

His gaze flicked back to Dean at the question, to find the young man staring at him, eyes green again. His attention turned back to the highway ahead as a car heading the opposite direction flashed his lights, indicating an accident or a police officer ahead. 

“Dad!”

“Just this, Dean. Just that we would - “ the man paused, trying to find a way to say it.

“I’m not going to play bitch for some demon,” the other man practically growled, “Not gonna hurt anyone, not gonna do anything --  _ demony.  _ Don’t care what the terms were.”

“Dean -” 

“No,” his son shook his head, anger etching his features, “Promised Sam I wouldn’t hurt anyone and I won’t. You can exorcise this son of a bitch or you can kill me now.”

John sighed in frustration, “Dean, listen -”

“I wanna talk to him.”

“To Sam?”

“To the son-of-a-whore you made the deal with.”

Both men jerked, startled, and the car swerved into the other lane as John jerked the wheel in surprise, as a smooth voice from the backseat drawled,

“Now, now, that’s no way to talk about my mother - ”

Dean half-turned in the front seat, gun drawn and pointed at the man - demon - who had suddenly appeared in the backseat. The demon eyed the gun, hands raised in complacence, and he smiled wryly and finished, “ - even if it’s true. Hello boys.”

Dean eyed the being in the backseat, wanting nothing more than to pull the trigger, even if he suspected it would do little good: bullets didn’t harm demons, and their vessels could function so long as they were possessed. He wanted to do it, but his new inner  _ companion _ wouldn’t allow it. He growled in frustration, and the man in the backseat smirked a bit.

“How about we all calm down and have a nice little chat? You wanted to chat, didn’t you?”

“Thought you had to be summoned at your crossroads,” his hand tightened on the grip of his gun.

The demon rolled his eyes as he drawled, “Don’t strain that brain of yours trying to figure it out. You wanted to chat, so - how can I help you? And do put that away before you hurt someone.”

Dean frowned as he lowered the gun - something more than  _ himself  _ making him do it - then flicked the safety back on. “I wanna know the terms of the deal you made with my dad.”

“Mm,” the man examined a manicured nail for a moment, seemingly contemplating the request, before raising his gaze to Dean again, “Simple, really. I keep the reapers from taking your soul -  _ I save your life _ \- and in exchange, you and your brother do something for me in the near future.”

“I’m not gonna hurt anyone for you,” Dean’s voice was a growl again as he scowled at the being in the backseat.    
  
“More like a  _ thing _ ,” the man looked bored, eyes surveying the interior of the car, “Trust me, you’ll be quite happy to help. Don’t stress your pretty little head, Dean, I’m not going to command you to hurt pitiful little humans. I have people for that already. I just need you morons to stay alive until I do need you, and since you were already  _ dying _ when Johnboy wanted to strike a deal, I provided a bit of insurance to keep you that way.”

They stared at one another for a long moment - Dean’s brows drawn in anger and mistrust, and the demon smirking - before the man shifted his gaze, meeting John’s in the rearview mirror. “It’s you and your brother I’ll need, but your dad is an extra insurance policy.” His gaze returned to Dean, “Speaking of, where is little brother?” 

That muscle in Dean’s jaw twitched again, and the man in the backseat raised a knowing brow. “Found out and jumped ship, did he?” His gaze met John’s in the rearview again as he chastised, “Didn’t I tell you to keep an eye on him?”

John’s eyes shifted to black for a moment, responding to the man’s tone, before he averted his gaze. “Working on it,” he muttered.

“You keep the hell away from my brother,” Dean drew his gun again, “I may not be able to kill you, but that won’t stop me from putting a bullet between your eyes anyway. And knocking your teeth out.” 

“Tsk tsk,” an actual chuckle, “So much anger. I’m not the threat to little Sam, not at the moment. Like I said, I need you both to do something for me. Once that’s done, our deal will be complete and you’re free to go. So find him, keep him safe, and wait until I contact you again to do what I contracted you to fucking do. Understand? Fabulous.”

Dean blinked as the man disappeared suddenly; he stared at the empty backseat for a moment before turning his gaze to his father. The other man was staring at the road again, jaw clenched and shoulders tense. Dean turned in his seat to face forward again, laying his gun on the seat beside him.

He exhaled a sigh and dropped his head back against the leather seat.

“Can we just find Sam?”

  
  



	3. 3

Another night of tossing and turning in the hard bed of a too-quiet motel room, and he was starting to feel it. Sam rubbed a hand over his face and shifted his backpack higher on his shoulder as he waited for his coffee. He was staring at some mass-produced art hanging on the wall when he heard his name called. He moved to retrieve his coffee from the counter, thanking the barista who barely looked 16, and headed out into the sunshine. 

Sam seated himself at a small table outside the Starbucks, one of the few places in which neither Dean nor John would step foot. He was sipping his caramel latte’ and people-watching when he heard a voice near his shoulder,

“I prefer the white chocolate myself.”

He started, nearly dropping the coffee, and half-turned. Sitting in a chair at his table to his right was a man in a well-fitted black suit.

“Hello Sam.”

“Who the hell are you?” Sam placed the coffee cup on the table, hand shifting to the backpack resting on his lap. He was reaching inside when the man shot him a smile and chided,

“Now, now, no need for weapons.”

The young man narrowed his eyes as he studied the other, fingers resting against the gun inside the pack’s side pocket. “Then I guess you should answer my question,” the calm tone of his voice didn’t mask the threat in it. 

“An interested party,” the man responded, eyes on a man passing by on the sidewalk, “in making certain you remain alive. Your brother is really quite worried about you, you know.”

Sam’s hand tightened around the gun’s grip as he shifted to fully face the man, “He usually is. Now, before I lose my patience.. Who. Are. You? How do you know my brother?”

“Tell me, Sam,” the man answered instead, brown eyes shifting to him, “What do you know of Azazel? Though I suppose you know him as - what is it your buffoon of a father calls him? Yellow Eyes?”

It wasn’t his gun he pulled from his pack, but a small silver flask. The man raised both hands in mock surrender as Sam flipped open the top. “I’ll just come back when you’re ready to talk, then.” He blinked as the man disappeared, half-turned in his seat to look around for him. With a heavy sigh, he closed the flask of holy water and shoved it back in his pack. He stood and, grabbing his coffee cup, headed down the sidewalk.

Three hours later, he was seated on a Greyhound bus, long legs stretched in front of him. Thankfully the seat next to him was empty so he didn’t have to listen to a stranger’s life story. Sam propped his backpack between the wall and his head, using it as a pillow, and closed his eyes. He had just started to doze off when a voice in the seat next to him startled him awake, 

“We must stop meeting like this.”

Sam stared, wide-eyed, at the man in the seat next to him: it was the man from outside of Starbucks. He scowled, jaw clenching, as he reached into his jacket pocket for the flask there. 

“I’m just here to talk, Gigantor,” the man tried to placate him, “please don’t make me crash this bus.” A nod toward the driver, three rows in front of him, had Sam glancing in that direction. The driver glanced at him in the rear-view mirror above his head: his eyes were coal black.

Sam swallowed, glanced around at the half-full bus and the innocent people on it. His hazel gaze shifted back to the man seated next to him, “What the hell do you want?” 

“I want you to shut up and listen,” was the growled response. 

A muscle twitched in his jaw and his fists clenched on his lap but, after a long moment, he nodded in agreement.

  
  
  


Two days later, Sam paused just outside the fence surrounding the property in front of him, eyes scouring the yard. No black car in sight, not that he figured there would be, but he had to make certain. There was, however, the man he was seeking, leaning under the hood of an old pickup truck. He took a breath and pushed open the gate, then moved into the yard.

Sam was halfway across the yard when the man noticed him. He straightened and pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket to wipe his hands clean as he watched Sam cross the yard. “Sam Winchester. It’s been a while. How you been? Where’s that brother of yours?”

“Christo.”

The man raised a brow but said nothing; he merely extended his hand. Sam took the offered hand and shook it, then greeted, “Hey Rufus. I’m - eh. I need your help.”

  
  


Bobby Singer stepped out onto the front porch as he heard the rumbling engine of a pick-up truck. He adjusted his ball cap as he watched it progress up the gravel drive, then raised a hand in a wave as the truck rolled to a halt and Rufus Turner put it in park.

“Hey Bobby,” the man greeted, climbing down out of the cab.

“Rufus,” he greeted with a nod, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“You here alone?”

Bobby raised a brow at the question, “You see anyone else here?”   


“Not an answer.”

“Well I ain’t having a tea party inside. Yeah I’m here alone. What’s going on?”

Both brows shot up as Rufus muttered “Christo.”

“Really?”

“Sorry Bobby,” the man grimaced, “Had to check.” He banged gently on the side of the truck then; a moment later, the tarp covering the truck’s bed was shoved aside. 

“Sam?” Bobby watched as a shaggy head peered over the truck bed, “What are you - what the hell is going on, Rufus?”

“Hey Bobby,” Sam shot him an apologetic smile as he climbed out of the truck’s bed, “Sorry to show up without calling first.” Bobby eyed the young man - Sam looked exhausted and anxious, dark circles under his eyes, as he chewed his bottom lip. Bobby huffed a breath and reached out to grasp his arm. A moment later he was pulling him in for a hug, and Sam was practically clinging to him. 

“Sam,” his voice was soft as he held the young man, “What’s going on? Your dad called here a couple days ago, looking for you.” At Sam’s wide eyes, he continued, “I told him I hadn’t seen you, because well, I hadn’t seen you. He said you were supposed to meet up with him and Dean, wondered if you’d come by here first. Thought it sounded weird, you traveling without your brother. What’s going on?”

“I think we should go inside,” Rufus suggested, “Sam can explain everything then.”

Bobby nodded and led the way into the house, holding the door for the other two to enter first. He frowned, glanced around the yard to make certain no one else had crept up without his knowledge, then went inside and closed the door.

Bobby had known something was wrong the moment Sam had popped up in the back of Rufus’s truck; having the boy ask him if there were salt lines down had all his senses on high alert. He added a new salt line at the back door, then he and Rufus went around to make certain the others were in place. When they made it back to the living room, it was to find Sam sitting dead center on the rug on the floor - the one which had a large pentagram painted on the wood beneath it. The one which Sam knew had the devil’s trap painted beneath it. 

“Sam,” Bobby breathed a slow breath, trying to remain calm, “I think it’s time to clue me in here.” Sam nodded, eyes on the worn rug, and began to talk.

  
  
  


Dean paced the parking lot of a bus station, thoughts elsewhere, as he waited for John to return. The man was inside, showing Sam’s picture to see if he had boarded one of the buses here. 

He absently chewed a thumbnail as he paced, his thoughts on his little brother. It was driving him mad that they hadn’t found Sam yet; every second away from the youngest Winchester was eating at him. It felt like it was creating a great big Sam-shaped hole inside him. Maybe that was the demon riding him, but it didn’t change his need for the absent younger man.

Sam had always been his soul-mate, he had known that for years now. The realization that his brother should also be his  _ mate _ hadn’t been completely unexpected. He had been fighting down feelings toward his little brother for years now. Having this demon inside him, pulling those feelings up to the surface, had, admittedly, thrown him a bit off-kilter. He had given up fighting it after several days; every moment he was around his brother drove that fact home. Sam was his  _ mate _ and Dean needed him. 

“Damnit Sam,” he muttered as he leaned against the Impala, hands on the hood and head bowed, “Where the hell are you?” He closed his eyes, an ache creeping up his chest, “Miss you, damnit.”

Dean froze, muscles tense, as he heard, 

“Still absent a brother, I see.”

“What do you want?” he glanced over his shoulder with a scowl. He wanted to pull his gun and shoot the bastard next to him, but the demon riding him wouldn’t allow it.

“Dean,” the man - demon - in the suit greeted as he moved to lean against the Impala’s fender, gaze locked on him. He raised a brow, eyes flicking to the hood of the car on which he was leaning, as Dean growled low in his throat.

“Possessive of brother and car both,” a smirk touched his mouth, “Noted.” 

“You ever stop talking?”

“Only when it suits me,” was the response, “I’m here to help you find your brother.” 

Dean’s eyes shifted to the other at the information, and he straightened, “You know where Sam’s at?”

“In time. Tell me first: What do you know of Azazel?”

“That bastard killed -” he heard the words coming from his mouth, words he didn’t want to say, and realized it was the demon riding him speaking them. He clamped down on them with a mental  _ Shut the hell up _ , and fell silent. He could feel the thing inside him pressing forward, pushing against his will, but he ignored it, his focus instead on the man in front of him and the fact that he might have information of Sam’s whereabouts.

“Are you -?” the suit laughed and shook his head, “Overpowering my demon. Impressive. It won’t last, but still impressive. Yes, he killed your mother, we’re all aware. What do you know of his intentions toward Sam?”

“Sam?” A cold dread flooded him at the question, made his chest feel heavy and his stomach drop, “What the hell are you talking about? What’s Sam have to do with that monster?”

“He’s amassing his own little army,” was the almost-glib response, “and he plans on recruiting your dear brother, among others.”

Rage flooded him at the words and his eyes shifted to black, drawing a laugh from the other, “He’s not getting near my brother.”

“Well, you’re in luck. I’m here to help.”

When John exited the station and approached the car ten minutes later, Dean was already behind the wheel. Before the man could even speak, he instructed, “Get in. I know where Sam’s at.”


	4. 4

“What the hell am I doing?” Sam huffed a breath as he dripped oil into a small black bowl, “I have to be out of my mind.” This would all be far less unnerving if his brother was here with him. Even then - he was doing this because of a conversation with a _demon_. What the hell was he thinking? If Dean were here --

Sam blinked and raised his head as he heard a distant sound, as familiar to him as breathing at this point. _The Impala._ Uncertainty and joy raced through him - Dean was here? But that meant the demon riding him -

He started as a voice behind him spoke suddenly, 

“Now is not the time to get distracted, Sam.” 

He half-turned, to find the black-suited man standing behind him in Bobby’s barn-turned-garage, hands shoved in the pockets of his slacks. 

“What the hell are we doing?” 

The being shot him a wan smile, “Saving the future. Are you ready?”

The sound of the Impala’s rumbling engine was drawing closer now, a soothing balm to his frayed nerves. He drew a calming breath before nodding once, his attention shifting back to the sigal he had drawn on the large rubber mat beneath him and the lit candles. 

The man-demon was motionless for a moment, head tilted slightly, before nodding and murmuring, “Now.”

Sam drew the blade of his pocket knife across his palm, wincing at the sting. He watched as the blood dripped in the bowl, then picked up a pack of matches. He struck one and dropped it into the mixture as he murmured an incantation: “ _Attenrobendum eos, ad consiendrum, ad ligandum eos, potiter et solvendum, et ad, congregontum eos, 'coram me.”_

His eyes shifted to his unwanted companion as he completed the incantation and the mixture flamed bright for a moment.. to find the other gone.

Hazel eyes shifted forward again, and he swallowed hard, heart racing as he glanced around. He wasn’t certain if he was pleased or disappointed when he saw nothing.

The young man jerked around, startled, as he heard to his left, 

“Sam Winchester. Sammy Sam Sam. Now this is awkward, we’re not supposed to do this for another two years.”

Sam stared at the demon: the vessel he inhabited wasn’t as imposing as he thought it would be, wirey-framed and not quite reaching 6’ in height, but he wasn’t about to underestimate him. The yellow eyes, however, were disconcerting as hell.

The man smiled at him - it made his skin crawl - and began to walk a half-circle before him. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Sam? This isn’t a revenge attempt, is it? Mommy dearest and all that?” A wave of a hand, the gesture dismissive, had him clenching a fist. He inhaled a calming breath before shaking his head.

“I - “ he paused for half-a-second, “-heard we’re supposed to meet in the near future. Kinda wanted to get a jumpstart on that.”

“Did you now?” the _thing_ before him halted, brows raised as it studied him, “Where did you hear that bit of information, do tell?”

“Does it matter?”

Before the man could respond, they heard, 

“Sammy!”

_Dean._ His brother was standing 50 feet away, just inside the barn’s doorway.He had a scowl on his face as he glared at the demon before him, and Sam had never been so happy to see anyone in his entire life. Twenty feet behind him was John, Bobby, and Rufus, moving toward the eldest son.

“Family reunion, hmm?” Azazel eyed the elder Winchesters before shifting his gaze to Sam, “Is this supposed to be a trap, Sam?” He raised a hand in Dean and John’s direction, and the men flew backward suddenly, knocked back a dozen feet. Bobby and Rufus were thrown back against the barn wall, pinned there by Azazel’s power. 

“No!” Sam stepped toward Azazel, to do what he didn’t know, but not prepared to let the demon harm his brother. Yellow eyes shifted in his direction: a moment later, he was knocked back a dozen feet himself, landing on his back with his breath knocked out of him.

“Get away from him, you son-of-a-bitch!”

The demon half-turned in Dean’s direction. His brows shot up as he saw the man on his feet, eyes black as pitch. “Well now,” he tilted his head, studying the man, “Wasn’t expecting that.”

“All your preparation and still not ready for the unexpected,” the smooth, accented voice had Azazel’s eyes shooting to Dean’s left, to the impeccably dressed man there. 

The yellow-eyed demon bared his teeth as he spat, “What the hell are _you_ doing here?”

The other smirked and raised his hand, taking advantage of Azazel’s surprise and knocking him back against the partition wall behind him, just as Dean raised the Colt he’d had hidden beneath his jacket and pulled the trigger. 

“Claiming my throne early.”

Seconds later, the bullet was tearing into the yellow-eyed demon’s chest. There was a flash of light, then several bright flashes coursed through the demon’s vessel. Seconds later, he was collapsing to the ground, the yellow light in his eyes vanished. 

“Oh, and saving the future world, oddly enough.”

Sam’s ears were still ringing from the Colt’s discharge. His eyes shifted from the motionless vessel on the ground to his brother as he heard, 

“Sam.”

Dean was moving toward him, worry etched in his features, along with something else. Grief? Fear? Sam swallowed as the man halted, a mere yard from him. A mere step from the rubber mat on which he had drawn Azazel’s sigal, the one covering the Devil’s Trap they both knew was painted on the floor beneath. 

He knew his brother as well as Dean knew him, demon companion aside, and he could read in Dean’s green eyes the fear there, fear that Sam was going to turn away from him.

“Dean,” he breathed the name and stepped toward his brother, hand reaching for him. A second later, Dean was willingly stepping into the Trap, knowing full well he would be held there so long as he was possessed, and he was wrapped up in the man’s arms.

“Sammy,” hot breath against his ear as his brother clung to him, “My Sammy. Do it, whatever you need to do.” His brother was giving him permission to exorcise his uninvited companion, “Just - please Sam, please don’t leave me again.” 

The pain in Dean’s voice caused an ache in his own chest. He pulled back slightly to look into the green eyes he knew so well but, before he could speak, a nearby chuckle caught their attention.

“That Winchester codependency at it’s finest,” the black-suited demon, the one whom had instigated this coup on Azazel, shook his head, “Such willpower, Dean. Fighting your demon to walk knowingly into a trap for baby brother. Touching, really.”

The demon glanced over at John as the man spoke, “We had a deal. We killed your demon, now let us go.” 

“That we did,” the demon mused, eyes flicking back to Dean and Sam, “I’m tempted to keep you, but a deal is a deal.” He shrugged a shoulder and snapped his fingers: Both John and Dean stumbled back, before doubling over as their demons smoked out of them in the form of black smoke. They crashed through one of the barn’s windows, leaving Bobby to mutter, “Balls”, before disappearing.

Sam grasped his brother’s arm, and Dean raised his head. “Dean,” he bit his lip as he studied the other’s face - Dean looked exhausted, “You okay?” The other man straightened, stumbled a bit, and Sam caught him, draping an arm around his waist.

“Am now, Sammy,” came the murmured response as his brother leaned into him.

All eyes shifted to Bobby as the hunter addressed the remaining demon in the room, “Just who the hell are you?”

The man shot them a smile of perfect white teeth, “The new King of Hell. Crowley, to you. Ta-ta, boys, I’ll see you in the future.” Without preamble, the demon was suddenly gone, leaving the five men blinking at the empty space.

Sam’s eyes shifted to his father as the man approached him. He allowed John to pull him into a hug, then the man pulled back from him. His father looked almost as exhausted as his brother, and Sam felt a pang in his chest.

John’s voice was quiet, “I’m sorry, Sam. I screwed up where you’re concerned. A lot. And I’m ashamed to say that it took being possessed by a demon to make me see that.” He rubbed a hand over his mouth, “I’ll do better, if you’ll let me try.” 

Sam was silent for a moment before nodding yes. John leaned in for another hug, this one more awkward now that it wasn’t demon-driven, then stepped back to give him some space. His own hazel gaze shifted to find his brother, whom Bobby had guided to sit down in an old chair nearby before he collapsed from exhaustion.

He moved to him and knelt before him, and Dean shot him a grim smile, “Sorry Sammy. Demon didn’t sleep or eat much when he was riding me, guess it’s catching up to me now that he’s gone.”

“Dean,” he breathed his brother’s name and reached for him, pulling the man to him in a hug. From his peripheral, he saw his father and Bobby and Rufus leave the barn, heading toward the house, whether to get John some nourishment or to give them some space, he didn’t know and didn’t care. 

“What I said,” Dean started when they parted, “It wasn’t just the demon, Sam.” The man swallowed, green eyes meeting his briefly before flicking away, “About you. About us. About - “ His voice trailed off for a moment, and Sam waited, giving his brother time, “About you being mine. My mate.” Green eyes met his again, “I meant that. It - I know it’s wrong, fuck, but you’ve always been mine. I’ve always felt that way about you, Sam, and -”

The man fell silent, a soft sound of surprise escaping his throat, when Sam leaned in and pressed his mouth against Dean’s. The kiss was soft, almost chaste, and pretty much perfect.

“I am yours,” he whispered when they finally parted to gaze into one another’s eyes, “Always.”

Green eyes sparked with joy as Dean pulled him close and held him tight.

  
  
  
[fin]  
  
  
  
  


  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Obviously this is an AU, one in which the deal John made to save Dean wasn’t with Azazel (and, therefore, Azazel didn’t end up with the Colt). It’s also set before Sam turned 23, which is when Azazel starts visiting his ‘special children’ in dreams and they begin to display powers. So in this version, the special children haven’t realized what they are (and won’t go on to become Special Children). Which means Sam didn’t die at Cold Oak, Dean didn’t make a deal to bring him back, hell wasn’t opened by Jake, Lillith wasn’t released, so on & so forth. (They do still meet Castiel, though, because there are still demons about, & <3 Cas!)
> 
> Yes, Crowley! Because <3 Crowley. 
> 
> Crowley who, during the unwritten conversations, explained to the boys that he had done a bit of time-hopping, and what the probable future would be if Azazel wasn’t stopped before he found his chosen ‘special child’ and the gates of Hell were opened. [Basically he’s sick of Azazel’s shite & thinks a leadership change is due.]


End file.
